


Duty

by dianaprincess



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elves, Eryn Lasgalen, F/M, Introspection, Ithilien, Mirkwood, Race of Men, Relationship(s), Rohan, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianaprincess/pseuds/dianaprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a marriage borne out of duty. But could it turn into something more? AU. Post-RotK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Unsurprisingly, I don't own any of this. Middle-earth and everything in its universe were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and everything affiliated in any way with Middle-earth is now owned by Middle-earth Enterprises and New Line Cinema. I make no claims to ownership of any material henceforth.
> 
> In a nutshell: I _am not_ getting paid or receiving other compensation for writing this story. Don't sue me.
> 
> This story could get fairly dark in places. Featured will be some severely messed-up characters, Lady Éowyn taking the brunt of this. To paraphrase what happened to her canonically within _The Lord of the Rings,_ Gríma Wormtongue emotionally abused her, using fear as a means to subdue her (and, depending on your take on the story, eventually rape her; whether or not he would have used his influence over King Théoden to force a marriage to her first is up for debate as well). Essentially, what she is going through is PTSD with parts of depersonalization disorder, especially emotional detachment/numbing, and more than a bit of depression mixed in, so severe that she wanted to die and attempted to commit suicide by walking willfully into a situation that she knew she could not (and did not want to) survive. As this story occurs post-RotK, she's still got loads of trust issues, and is far from being able to function normally, the repercussions of these happenings still recurring in relation to her character. There could be a few references to rape (she was not raped; but she may contemplate the fact that if things hadn't turned out as they did, it would have inevitably happened at some point) and some near-suicidal thoughts (nor does does not attempt to kill herself, but does wish multiple times that she was dead, as she does in _The Lord of the Rings)_. Other characters may experience symptoms of PTSD as well; these mainly relate to the characters who were in combat during the War of the Ring. Essentially, at the start of the story, neither Legolas nor Éowyn are doing very well emotionally, in varying degrees. But a few major components of this story will be hope and healing: things will improve for both of them, I promise.
> 
> This story is obviously AU for multiple reasons, not the least of these the fact that Elves don't arrange marriages for their children. However, it is a rather convenient premise for some angsty interactions with even more angsty characters and also a really good way to keep other canonical love interests *coughfaramircough* out of the way. I'm still having a bit of trouble figuring out some last details, so it will probably be awhile until this is updated regularly.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my betas, BrightWatcher and Apollo888, on fanfiction.net. I never could have dared attempt this without them.
> 
> The text in _italics_ is thoughts.
> 
> The prologue begins in late autumn 3019.

She stood at the railing, overlooking the golden fields of the Riddermark. The sun was setting over the horizon, turning the sky into a breathtaking display of scarlet and crimson. She pulled her cloak tighter about her, shivering slightly. Summer was fading into autumn, and the air was turning cold. The snows would come soon.

"Éowyn?" She turned at the sound of her brother's voice. He stepped from her door out onto the balcony. "You were not inside, and the door was open. I will leave if you wish to be alone—"

"Éomer." She offered him a small smile, which he returned hesitantly. "I see that the counselors have finally released you."

He came to her side. "I never knew running a kingdom would be such an exhausting task." He sighed, staring at his hands. "King Elessar is fortunate. The Steward will ease his passage." He looked up and searched her face, a tentative question in his gaze, though she did not meet his eyes, still looking out over the grassy fields.

"We are friends, nothing more." This was the first time Éomer had spoken to her of her weeks in the Houses of Healing, wishing to wait until it seemed to no longer pain her, but she had known such questions would arise eventually. Lord Faramir may love her, or think he did, but she knew she could never love him. He was a good man, but he did not see who she really was. To him, she seemed to come out of one of the legends of old, offering a chance at glory, a whisper of great deeds and heroic feats. He loved the mirage projected by her fame, not the maiden inside.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both looking out over the back of the city. His hair whipped around his face in the winds, harsh and cold from the north and even more cutting up here, high above the plains.

He was the first to speak. "Do you remember when the Three Hunters came here, to Meduseld?"

She nodded mutely. _I could never forget._

"Lord Aragorn, Gimli, the Dwarf, and the Elf."

She blinked. "You speak of Prince Legolas."

"He has asked for your hand in marriage."

She twisted abruptly to stare at him. "Why?"

His gaze moved out over the fields. "An alliance."

She drew in a sharp breath. "They would join the Woodland Realm with the Riddermark?"

"Yes." He sighed. "Why, I do not know."

"It is sudden."

"Yes."

She looked down at her hands, clenched on the cold stone of the rail. Her fingers were stiff and cold.

Of course, she had always expected to have to make a political marriage. She would wed some aged lord or another, as her mother had, though she had been lucky; Éomund was not five years the elder. And she had loved him. Her daughter would not be so fortunate in her fate. As a member of the House of Eorl, she did not have that kind of freedom, more so now that Théoden and his son were dead. Now, the stakes were higher. Already messengers had been sent from the lords of Gondor, promising grain for her people, starving after the torches of Isengard, for the hand of the White Lady. A lady of Minas Tirith or Edoras must also be sent to quiet the defeated warlords of Harad; yet another alliance that must be formed. As it seemed, now her sole duty was to choose a husband and wed him as soon as possible. She did not wish to marry, not now, not ever, perhaps, but there seemed no alternative. This task was her birthright.

Éomer could have burned the parchment; never spoken to her of it. This would provide nothing for Rohan, and she, as the only highborn lady of the court of Edoras considered suitable for such a task, was a valuable commodity. But he had given her a choice. Perhaps it was out of guilt, of seeing her on the Pelennor, knowing why she had done what she did, and that he had done nothing to stop it. She had almost died, and he blamed himself for it.

It was selfish, perhaps, that she would wish this over something that would save her people, and in some part of her, she loathed herself for wishing so desperately to do it. She felt a sudden surge of love for this man who was her brother. For he already knew which she would choose, and he was allowing her to do it. He was allowing her to choose her fate—not as the king's sister, as a Lady of the Riddermark, who had a duty to her people, but simply as herself, without any of the titles bestowed upon her—though he knew it would soon place an unbearably heavy burden on himself.

She did not want to be the lady of some far-away realm, married to a man she hardly knew and could never love. The elf needed no heirs, so she would not be forced to share his bed. He would expect nothing in return for her hand. With him, she supposed that she could largely be left alone, not be forced into games of court too complicated for her to play.

She looked up at him. "Please tell the Prince that I accept."

Éomer looked down at her, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers were warm, the callouses earned with many years of riding and wearing a sword rough against her skin. "I am sorry, sister, that it has come to this. I would not wish such a thing upon you, were it my place to decide."

"It is not."

"No," he agreed. "Éowyn, I pray that you will be happy." The words seem to stick in his throat. "I love you, sister." He suddenly drew her into his warm embrace, burying his face in her hair. He smelled of leather and wool and horses and grass, as he always had. She closed her eyes, his solid, real presence comforting her as nothing else ever could.

"And I, you," she whispered into his chest.

They stood there in silence, staring out over the horizon, the light of the sinking sun setting their mingled golden hair aflame.


	2. One

She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on her pale hands, clasped in her lap. The room around her was cold and bare, even the tapestries taken from the walls and packed away, the fireplace swept clean.

She would not return.

A single candle flickered in the darkness on a small wooden table next to the headboard. It was not yet dawn.

She stood, placing a hand on the heavy bedpost and lightly tracing the carvings, nervous, though she would not admit it to herself.

The heavy door creaked open, and she looked up. Her fingers stilled.

"It is time," her brother said.

She nodded and stepped quietly out into the hallway.

A tall figure stood a respectful distance from Éomer's side, a plumed helmet under his arm, a sword hanging at his belt. Elfhelm, she realized. He nodded at her, and a faint smile crept over his somber face. They had ridden together before.

"Walk with me," Éomer said quietly, taking her arm.

They took a few steps in silence, her gaze focused on the gray stone of the walls ahead and the deep green and bright gold of the hangings.

"You will ride with Elfhelm's company until you reach the forest," he finally said. "There a company of Thranduil's men will escort you to his palace. Elfhelm and several of our riders will continue on with you."

"Yes."

"I will not be able to attend the wedding. I cannot leave the city."

She nodded.

He opened the doors, and the sudden gust of bitter wind whipped her loose hair around her face. She looked up, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the silent crowds that had assembled to bid her farewell. Her back straightened automatically; the cheerless eyes of hundreds were fixed on her. The entire city had been emptied, the few rays of sunlight that had crept beyond the horizon reflected on the mass of golden heads.

It seemed odd, somehow. A wedding should have been a joyous occasion; if not for her, then for her people. Perhaps she should not have been surprised, she reasoned. Too long had their years had been dark for merriment to come easily.

Windfola nickered softly as she mounted, and she stroked the horse's dappled gray neck.

Éomer stood beside the mare, his cloak flapping in the wind.

"Farewell, Éowyn," he said, looking up at her.

"Farewell," she said. Perhaps she would have wept, had there been any tears left to fall.

Elfhelm's bay stallion trotted to her side, and Éomer stepped back, his gaze still locked with hers.

Twin banners whipped in the wind, a white horse upon forest green, held high as they galloped out of the city.

She did not look back.

xxxx

Elfhelm's company rode for weeks. They passed through the Wold, where the borders of Fangorn forest were a hazy mist on the horizon. One morning they woke to find the golden hills covered in snow. They followed the icy Anduin up Elfhelm's map until it was narrow enough to ford, though she was still soaked to the skin by the time Windfola reached the opposite shore. A fortnight into their journey, it was the farthest north any of them had ever traveled.

Three weeks after she had left Edoras, the dark borders of Mirkwood hovered in the distance, ever-present and creeping closer the farther north they rode.

The closer she was to the forest, the harder it was for her to ignore why she had come.

They had never spoken. All that she remembered of him was the pity in his eyes when he had looked at her as she wept, begging Aragorn to ride with him to battle.

She did not desire his pity.

He had attended King Théoden's funeral, as had the other Elves from Rivendell and the Golden Wood traveling back to their forests and valleys from the coronation in Minas Tirith, but it had done little to ease the fear the Rohirrim had of their race. Dwarves they had dealings with in ancient times, vague remnants of ill will remaining on both sides despite her brother's plans for Lord Gimli and his kin to take up residence in the Glittering Caves. Hobbits were like enough to their own hearts for them to embrace with ease. But the Elves were so unlike Men: pale, tall, ethereal, as if they had stepped out of a dream. They were too different. Her guards grew ever more nervous the closer they rode to the forest. Dangerous enchanters, she had heard them call the Eldar when they thought she could not hear. Beautiful, to be sure, but it was all an illusion, a façade projected to hide the menace underneath.

Mirkwood the Rohirrim had feared even more than Dwimordene. The old songs and tales did not go back far enough in memory to remember a time when the forest was not cloaked in shadow, a wild and perilous presence on their Northern border. The Elves of the Wood and the dark sorcery they practiced, sorcery so terrible to spread even to the forest they lived in, they had feared even before they Eorl had led her ancestors south.

She did not know him, but she did not fear him as they did. Her brother had fought side by side with him in many battles, and Aragorn had accounted him his greatest friend. King Elessar had wed an Elf maiden, the fairest to walk the earth since the Eldar Days, it was said. Queen Arwen was exceedingly fair, she had to admit. It was no wonder he had waited for her for more than sixty years. Even her brother had praised her gentleness and beauty.

Éowyn was not gentle. She was not beautiful in the way the Queen was, dark and elegant and flawless.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

When she was a child, the Elves were some imagined race, a legend of ages long past, either ethereal creatures fey and beautiful beyond compare or dark mages who sought to ensnare all in their webs. But then he had walked into the Golden Hall, a being only told of in children's tales, she had wondered for a brief moment if she were going mad. But then she had seen Aragorn, and his _realness,_ the power that he carried, even ragged and worn from many weeks of wearying travel, had grounded her. She had turned to him instead of this surreal being that confounded her simply by existing. But she had not loved Aragorn, as she had tried to convince herself many nights after their first meeting, staring up at the shadows of her high ceiling and praying for someone to take her away from her prison, for she could not accomplish such a task herself. She had wished instead to be him, she supposed, to be able to ride off and fight battles and have adventures and do as she wished, never again having to bow to the will of another. She had thought to wed him, for as his queen perhaps she would be free from the cage that sought to ensnare her, trapping her until she was so numb that she forgot even to long for freedom anymore. It would have been a small price to pay for the thing she wished for most in all the world.

But it had not turned out to be so.

She had tried to choose her path, and yet again choice was denied her. Submission was to be her fate, she had finally realized as she awoke, broken and despairing, in Minas Tirith. Not even to the cool embrace of death could she escape it.

And now she was to wed this Elf. It was supremely ironic, in a way. Who could have foreseen such an insane turn of events?

One month after they had crossed the Anduin they reached the Forest Gate.

"We wait here," Elfhelm told her, his wary eyes fixed on the dark forest.

Night fell, and they lit a fire with wood they had carried with them from a few days before. None dared venture into the forbidding treeline, not even to gather kindling. That was their realm, and the Rohirrim would not tread there uninvited.

She could not sleep that night, staring at the side of her tent, the embers of the fire sending strange shadows dancing across the fabric, the forest deliberately at her back.

When the stars faded and the edges of the sky began to pale, thirty tall Elven warriors, clad in the deep brown of the Woodland Realm, stepped silently out of the forest.

She mounted Windfola, Elfhelm at her side.

This time she could not stop herself. She quickly glanced back at the open lands behind her, the cold and empty halls of Meduseld nothing but a memory far beyond the horizon.

After a moment she blinked, once again carefully in control, her mind clear of all thought.

And thus Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, entered the realm of Thranduil, King of the Wood-elves of Northern Mirkwood.


End file.
